


you get lost (when you're lead by blind faith)

by BookPirate



Category: The Nun (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-28 06:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookPirate/pseuds/BookPirate
Summary: Irene has seen true evil and salvation. She's seen demons and angels. Her faith is true and pure, but the Church is not. She's taken her vows, but lately all they've felt like is a cage. And now she's having visions that she can't figure out.Maybe she just needs a break.





	you get lost (when you're lead by blind faith)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I am shocked this is the first fic about these two on AO3. I thought they had good chemistry and were super cute! But y'all wanna write about Valak falling in love with and topping Irene, aight I see you.
> 
> Second, I did some research on this but I'm not Catholic so if I get something wrong I apologize.
> 
> Third, I took some of the issues Irene faces from my own experiences with religion so. Be nice.
> 
> Fourth, title is from 'False God' by Taylor Swift.

"Frenchie," Irene breathes, reaching out for him. But he won't look up and doesn't seem to hear her.

He's in pain, but she doesn't know why, until she looks around and notices where he is; in a chair, a priest praying over him as someone is in the corner with what looks like a compact camera, the kind they use to make videos. Another woman is wiping his brow, worrying over him. She recognizes none of them, except for Frenchie, who's shaking and sweating profusely. Her heart hurts to see him like this, and she reaches out without thinking.

As if he's reacting to her, he suddenly stands up and grabs the woman tending to him. Irene doesn't know what happens to the woman, but all of a sudden she's screaming as if she's in the worst pain of her life. It wakes Irene up.

She's panting heavily, drenched in sweat, almost like Frenchie was, and needs to quickly reach over to puke into the wastebasket by her bed. When she's finished, she gets up on shaky legs to go to the bathroom, making a mental note to clean it up in the morning. After splashing cool water on her face, she grips the sink and looks into the mirror. Her eyes still look haunted, dark circles making her look closer to 45 than 25. She hasn't been eating well, and her face is looking thin. Something needs to change.

Already, she's done what she can. She's taken a sabbatical from the Church, and has been praying every day to see if she's made the right choice. She knows God rarely gives answers outright, but she still hopes He can at least give her a sign.

The light from the dawn is slowly filling the bathroom, so she goes back to kneel at her bedside to pray, in the simple hotel she's staying in in Bucharest. She came back to see if she could find answers in the abbey, to see if they hadn't vanquished the evil after all. The abbey had been abandoned, as it probably will be until the end of time, but she'd felt nothing but peace there.

Except for the dungeons, where she'd almost died until she'd spat Christ's holy blood into the demon's face. Where she watched it drown amongst what was then turned into holy water. There, she relived the terror of almost dying, of being sure her soul was lost forever. Until Frenchie and Father Burke came, and Frenchie managed to wrench her away, and then to save her from drowning as her eyesight grew dim.

She had been prepared to die, at that point, would've welcomed the relief of it. But then she felt Frenchie's lips on hers, saw his blue eyes looking into hers with worry, and realized he had brought her back.

"Frenchie," she interrupted his babble, "what's your real name?"

"Maurice," he told her, as he exhaled and let some of the tension leave his body.

"Thank you for saving my life, Maurice."

Now, almost a year later, she'd looked into that dungeon, felt that terror, and then felt it slip away. She was sure Valak was gone, for good. That they'd been able to make sure they wouldn't have to worry about the demonic nun again. 

But that didn't explain her new visions, that included a different version of events. Things she knew hadn't happened. She had seen Valak vomiting into Frenchie's mouth as he'd dangled, something that wasn't possible, because he and Father Burke had never split up. Valak had been flung away before being able to grab Frenchie. Her prayers in the light of dawn don't offer any answers, however, and it's hard to not be frustrated as she finally gets ready for the day.

She'd asked the villagers, before she went to the abbey, about Frenchie. They were shy to talk to her, though willing because they knew she had helped rid their land of evil.

"He's in Canada," they told her. "Ontario."

She knew Ontario was a large place, but managed to track down a family who had his exact address. There was something in her soul telling her to see him. But here, in Bucharest as she gets ready to leave, she realizes she wants to see Father Burke first.

He's almost on the way, in Ireland, hiding out in a remote church where he told her in his last letter he hopes the Vatican won't find him.

The journey is long, but Ireland is beautiful, and she hopes the Father has found the peace he's looking for here.

"Sister," he greets her, when he opens the door and sees who's knocking. Even though she didn't send word of her coming, it feels like he's been expecting her.

"Irene, please," she corrects him, gently.

"Ah, yes. I was told about your sabbatical."

She squirms a little, under his gaze. This is the priest who gave her her vows, after all. "Yes, well. I didn't know what else to do."

He hums as he leads her into the kitchen. "A drink first, perhaps, before you tell me what's troubling you."

"Who says this isn't just a friendly visit?" she tries, with a small smile.

He laughs under his breath, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "The worry lines on your face, for one."

She relaxes as she takes one of the glasses from him. "I won't pretend you're not right."

So, she tells him everything, as they sip their drinks and sit next to the window in his kitchen, with views of rolling green hills and the setting sun. She talks about the conversations with the nuns she's run into, the Mother Superior, the priests at the churches she's been to. How she can't reconcile how the Church acts with her faith, and what she's seen as the truth. She talks about her nightmares, too, the visions she sees of Frenchie, and her visit to Romania.

He's silent as she speaks, watching her with his intense eyes, only moving to pour a little more whiskey when their glasses are empty. Then, when she finishes, it's dark enough outside that he gets up to light a fire in the fireplace in front of them.

She waits until he's gotten the kindling to spark and sits back down. "So, Father?"

"Well, Irene, that is quite a story."

She looks to the flames. "Yes, I know. And I don't know what to do."

His pause is long enough that she looks back up at him. He's looking down at the dregs of whiskey in his glass, swirling them. "You understand," he says, finally looking up at her, "I can't _tell_ you what to do."

"Yes."

"And that anything I tell you would be my own opinion, private, not sanctioned by the Church," he continues.

"Yes, Father," she says, somewhat impatiently.

"You once told me," he tells her slowly, ignoring the impatience in her tone, "you had visions, when you were younger. About how Mary points the way. And then, in our darkest hour, you were right. Mary pointed the way, you saw the dead nuns who told you what you needed to know, and you saw where the tunnels were."

He pauses again, so she responds, "Yes," because she doesn't know what else to do.

"You had been hesitating about being a nun before that mission, hadn't you?" His eyes snap to hers.

"Y-yes," she stammers. "I had been."

"But you took your vows, because in that moment, you needed to."

"I had never felt surer of anything, Father."

He nods. "But the reasons you had hesitated, they never changed. That part of _you_ that hesitated didn't change either. What changed was a sudden, desperate desire to save humanity from certain evil." He sighs, and sets down his glass. "When I was in the trenches, and when I was performing exorcisms, I had my own doubts. Not about God, but about the way we, as imperfect humans, interpret the Bible, and about how the Church itself interprets it. I still have those doubts. But I recognize that being a priest is what I need to be in order to do what I think I was put on this Earth to do."

She's confused. "I don't understand."

He leans forward and grasps her hand in his. "Do you believe God has a plan for all of us, Irene?"

"Yes," she responds, a little breathlessly.

"His plan for me, as I understand it, is to hunt miracles. I need to be a priest to do so. Do you know what your plan is?"

She feels tears prick in the corner of her eyes. "I need to help people, Father. I _need_ to protect this world from evil."

He sits back and releases her hand with a kind smile. "You don't need to be a nun to do that."

She furrows her brow in confusion. "What?"

"Your plan and the Church, were at first parallel paths." He holds out his two index fingers to demonstrate. "You had visions that were necessary to seal away the evil in Romania. Now, you're having visions of what I think are what would have happened if things had played out differently in the dungeon. If the demon had gotten its hands on Mr. Theriault. I could be wrong," he shrugs, "but what your visions are showing is now that your path is branching off from the Church's." He separates his fingers to show her. "The Church would have you stay in an abbey, to be called out only when they deemed necessary. Your visions are telling you to go see Frenchie. That is not something a nun would be able to do without permission."

She thinks this over. "So, you think I should forsake my vows?"

"I didn't say that." He gets up and puts their glasses in the sink. "I just think that you shouldn't feel bound to your vows if you're unhappy with the Church. As long as your faith is true, and you follow His plan for you, the rest is just details. Now, come, it's late and you should sleep."

She knows he's right, but she can't help but toss and turn as she tries to follow his advice. She can't stop thinking about his words. It's true, she hesitated to take her vows because the way the nuns treated her as an initiate. She doesn't think science and faith are incompatible like the Church does, and, no matter what Mother Superior says, she believes dinosaurs are real. Her faith in God is strong, made stronger by the visions and events in Romania, but how can she be happy with a life in an organization that doesn't allow for free will? Not to mention all the issues she has with the treatment of nuns versus the treatment of priests, when both have decided to dedicate their lives to God.

When she does eventually fall asleep, she has another dream. It's unlike the dreams she's had before, about what the Father thinks is almost an alternate timeline. It's Frenchie, on a farm in what she guesses is Canada, working the land hard. This time, when she reaches out to touch his arm, he looks down and smiles.

"Irene," he says, greeting her.

"Frenchie," she responds, smiling up at him.

She's shocked when he reaches down to press his lips to hers, a chaste kiss that feels like one they've shared hundreds of times over. She wakes up gasping.

Immediately she gets out of bed, kneels down, and prays. She asks for forgiveness, but soon is filled with a feeling that there is nothing to forgive. It scares her, and keeps her praying until the sun rises. But now she feels the need more than ever to see Frenchie. Maybe her visions will make sense once she sees him in person.

She meets Father Burke at the kitchen table. He's already up, and slides a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her. "So, Irene, what will you do now?"

After chewing a bite of her breakfast slowly, she looks up at him. "I think I should see Frenchie. Maybe seeing him will help me make sense of these visions."

"I think that's a good idea." He smiles at her as he sits down across from her, his own breakfast in front of him. "I also want to reassure you, you don't need to make any decisions about your vows now."

She feels better, hearing the words from a man she respects more than anyone. "Thank you, Father. You've made me feel more at peace than you know."

"If you ever need anything," he says, patting her hand, "I'm here for you."

"And the same for you, Father."

He gives her a grin. "Oh, trust me. If the Church calls on me again, you'll be the first to know."

The journey to Canada is long and somewhat familiar. She has to take a plane to a train to a bus, and the land is beautiful but not largely populated. The people in the French part of Canada can speak English, but don't like to, so it's with some difficulty she manages to get directions to Frenchie's farm. A small one, she's told, about a mile outside of town.

She doesn't mind the walk, though she does wish about halfway through it she hadn't packed quite so many things. She'll forgive herself, however, since she's not exactly sure how long she's staying. Part of her wonders if he'll be happy to see her, or if she'll be an unwelcome reminder of a time in his life he'd rather forget. She could probably make it back to the village before dark if it's the latter.

The villagers were right; the farm _is_ small. Maybe an acre, if that, with most of it forest. There's a small part of it that's been plowed, with tomato plants. She smiles to herself as she knocks on the door of his modest home. There are a few chickens in his yard, clucking at her curiously in the dying light. The goats, however, aren't interested.

The door opens slowly, Frenchie's face peering around the corner of it as if he's suspicious of whoever's on the other side of the door. When he sees her, his eyes widen and he opens the door further. The tension doesn't leave his shoulders.

"Sister," he greets her, a little warily.

She can't find it in herself to correct him. "Frenchie." She gives him a wide smile, and he seems to relax a little.

"To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Do you need my help again? Although, I don't think my tomatoes are possessed, and there isn't an abbey for miles."

She laughs a little. "No, I'm just here for a visit. If that's okay."

That gets a smile out of him, a true one. "Well, then. Welcome."

He takes her bag from her and gives her a short tour of the place. She peeks her head in each room as he shows her the life he's been living for the last six months. "It's very different from Romania. Do you miss it?"

"A little," he tells her, setting her bag down on a bed that looks lived in, "but not the abbey."

She laughs again. "Yes, I completely understand." She pauses, taking a look around the room again. "Frenchie, is this your room?"

He runs a hand through his hair, almost sheepishly. "Yes, but you have to take it. I have another bed, but it's in the barn and probably not very clean."

"I don't mind, really. I don't want to -"

"Please, Sister. I'll bring the bed inside and sleep in the next room, but I really do insist."

His set face makes her sigh. "Well, if you _insist_."

He tells her more of his life as he prepares a modest dinner for the two of them. "I mostly do handiwork for the villagers, since my tomato crop is so small."

"Are you planning on expanding it?" she asks, curiously. "I noticed the chickens and goats in the yard."

"I have a cow, too, and a horse in the barn. I don't know about expanding it, though. I haven't farmed since I was young and want to make sure I take to it before I commit further. I'm sure you understand," he adds with a smile.

She tries not to frown, and turns her gaze to her almost empty plate. "Yes, I suppose."

He shifts in his chair and leans forward, causing her to look up and meet his concerned gaze. "Sister, you still haven't told me what you're really doing here."

Sighing, she sits back. "Just a friendly visit isn't enough?"

"Of course, if it were true."

She smiles a little to herself, remembering Father Burke's similar reaction. "You're very astute, Frenchie."

He gives her a grin. "I try."

She hesitates for a moment before telling him what she feels she can. Her dissatisfaction with the Church, in general, and the visit with Father Burke. She leaves out the visions of his pain, of a different path taken in the dungeons. Especially, she leaves out the vision of the kiss.

He whistles, low. "That's a lot to happen in a year."

"Yes," she sighs again, "so I took a sabbatical."

"Can nuns do that?"

She shrugs. "I didn't really give them much room to argue. I personally think Mother Superior was glad to be rid of me."

"You'd think they'd be blessing you every time you turned around."

"We couldn't talk about Romania." She props her chin up on her hand. "Although, I suppose if she knew she _would_ treat me better."

He's quiet for a moment, before asking, "So, does that mean I should still call you Sister?"

She smiles. "I think you can get away with calling me Irene now."

"Okay," he grins, "Irene."

She has the fight the blush that wants to rise to her cheeks throughout the rest of the night, which admittedly isn't very long. She holds doors open for him as he moves the mattress propped up against a wall in the barn inside. It is relatively dirty, but with fresh sheets on it she wouldn't have known the difference. His spare room has tools in it, and is clearly a workshop, but the bed manages to fit against a wall.

"Thank you again, Frenchie," she tells him, before they go to bed.

"It's my pleasure," he says, with a small smile. "Really."

She has another dream that night, about Frenchie. It's a dream about the domestic life, about them feeding the chickens in the yard. It's a nice feeling, looking over at him and having him smile at her. It's disrupted, however, by a small child who comes bursting out of the small house. With curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, there's no denying whose child it is. What is surprising, is the fact that the child grabs her, and cries, "Mama!"

She awakens with a gasp. Panting heavily, she swings her legs off the bed and immediately kneels. "Forgive me, my Lord, for I have sinned."

If she were in a church, she would've gone straight to the confessional, even though it's still dark outside.

The rest of her night is uneasy. She does manage to go back to sleep, when her heartbeat is slower and her breathing even. The sleep is not restful, however, as she's haunted by the vision of the small child. She keeps reminding herself she's still a nun, has still taken vows that she feels are her calling. Her calling to use her visions to help protect people.

_"You don't need to be a nun to do that."_

Father Burke's words haunt her, too.

In the morning, it doesn't look like he's slept much better than her. He scrambles eggs for her, pushes her gently away when she tries to help. "What kind of host would I be if I didn't cook for you?"

"It's really unnecessary," she tries again, but he's firm as he directs her to sit back down at the table.

"So, Irene," he says, as he finishes and sits across from her, "how long are you planning on staying?"

"How long will you have me?" she answers, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Well, in that case," he raises an eyebrow back at her, "perhaps I should've let you cook."

She laughs, admitting at least to herself that she's feeling better than she has in a while.

* * *

It's been a little over two months since she arrived. She sent word to the Church to let them know where she was, but they haven't sent her anything else except for an acknowledgement. She discovers she doesn't really care.

She helps Frenchie out around his farm, helping him grow his little field and plant grape vines, so he can branch out. She feeds the chickens as he takes care of the goats, brushes the horse as he milks the cow. And then, when he needs to go into the village for supplies or to do an odd job, she follows. The villagers have taken to calling her his 'little shadow'. They think there's something going on between them, and they don't bother to correct their assumptions. After all, it's a more lengthy explanation than she'd care to give.

In the time she's been there, that they've settled into a routine, he's never asked for his bed back, and has continued to sleep in his workshop. She wonders how long they can go on like this.

She won't deny, there is _something_ between them. He's more of a gentleman than he claims to be, and gives her physical space, and never pushes what she's unwilling to give. But there's something in his eyes, when they linger on hers, and in his laugh when she inevitably does something to cause it. They get to know each other very well, to the point that they can work without speaking for a while, without it ever feeling awkward.

They're treading in dangerous waters, she knows. But she can't quite bring herself to end the peace she's found on this little farm. Even if she does keep having visions of their marriage.

She refuses to dwell too much on it. After all, it could just be another alternate timeline, like Father Burke had mentioned. 

Things change, however, one day while they're talking about family. He's hesitant to talk about it, so she won't push him. Bit it is nice to talk about her own problems, after keeping them bottled up for so long.

"My father thought I was crazy, and tried to have me committed when I was 13," she tells him, as they work on weeding.

He looks over at her, a frown on his face. "Because of your visions?"

"Yes." She pauses to wipe some sweat from her brow. "I made the mistake of telling him and my mother. My father wasn't religious, but my mother was. She went to the priest at our church and asked for his help."

"And so you were saved?"

She laughs a little at his joke. "In a way. The priest contacted Bishop Forne, who intervened. I was sent to a school, away from my parents, and taught to accept my visions as a gift from God."

"Well, I won't deny they came in handy." He's quiet for a moment, before asking, "Did you ever see your parents again?"

"I've seen my mother," she answers honestly. "I send her a card every Christmas. I avoid my father."

"I avoided my father, too," he finally says. "When he was alive."

She's curious, but doesn't want to push him and scare him away. "He's dead now?"

"Yes." He turns and spits away from her, a habit he picked up in Romania and never left behind. "Fifteen years at least."

"I can't tell if I should offer my condolences or not."

His laugh has a rough edge to it. "I wasn't sad, so I don't know why you would be. He was not a good man."

"I'm sorry, then, for you. To have such a father."

He glances over at her, a small smile on his lips. "And I am sorry for you, too."

That night, when she has a dream, it's of them in the fields, spending a day much like the day they just spent together. She only wakes with the dawn, and stares at the ceiling as she tries to sort through her emotions.

She understands, now, that she's been avoiding the truth. That she can help Father Burke when she can, when he asks, and still live a good life. A life with God. But also a life with Frenchie. She's read the Bible time and time again and knows that becoming a nun isn't a mandate. It's just an act to prove faith. Like helping Father Burke would be. Like being a good wife.

Father Burke had told her what she needed to know all those months ago, but she wasn't ready to hear it.

Now she is.

She feels jumpy, for the rest of the day. Every time Frenchie gets close, she feels like she can't breathe, can't even look at him properly.

He finally breaks as they're cleaning up from a quiet dinner. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she quickly smiles up at him, before going back to collecting the plates. She leaves the cutlery for last.

He grabs her wrist as she turns back to grab it. "Irene."

She inhales sharply and looks up at him. It's clear he's concerned. "How long can I stay with you, Frenchie?"

He frowns, his grip on her wrist tightening a little. "As long as you want."

"And what if I never want to leave?"

He takes a step towards her, so he's much, much too close. She can tell exactly how blue his eyes are, and see the lines starting to form on his face, both from laughter and worry. She's a little surprised to see there are freckles across his nose.

"Irene," he breathes, and she remembers her first dream, all those months ago, about the kiss that never was in his field.

She closes her eyes as she tips her face up to press her lips to his. She's only kissed one other person, a boy, when she was a child and wanted to see what it was like.

It wasn't anything like this.

He inhales sharply, one of his hands grasping at her hip, as if to steady himself. She mirrors his move, fingers gripping his suspenders as she continues to kiss him. He's soft with her, moving slowly as if he's afraid it's a dream. It's sweet and warms her to her toes.

She pulls back when she needs to breathe, just enough to be able to look into his eyes. He searches her face, and must find what he's looking for, because he suddenly picks her up, his arm sweeping under her as he kisses her again, much more intensely. She tries to keep up with him, wraps her legs around his waist and arms around his neck as he carries her to the table, pushing the forgotten cutlery to the floor. One of his hands then moves to the small of her back, keeping her pressed against him, as his other grips her upper thigh, feeling like a hot iron band holding her close.

Her head is spinning, and she feels like she's drowning again, but in the best way possible. All that exists, in this moment, is the way his bottom lip tastes in between hers, the way his tongue slips into her mouth, and the way his scent is all she can smell. The sweet musk of fresh dirt and sweat from hard work. She aches in her heart and in her stomach, between her legs.

His hand moves slowly up her side before cupping her chest. Something about the act has him jerking back. He swears softly in French.

"Maurice?" she asks, a little worried. She feels flushed and a little light-headed.

"Oh, please, please don't say my name right now." He runs his hands through his hair, gripping at it. "I think I might catch on fire."

"For what?"

He looks at her, pained. "Defiling a nun."

She tries very hard to keep a straight face, but soon bursts out laughing. "Maurice!"

"This isn't funny, Irene," he snaps at her. "After discovering Hell exists, do you really want to go there?"

That's enough to sober her up. She reaches a hand out to him, beckoning him. "Maurice, come back." She likes the way his name sounds, might never stop saying it now.

He comes back to her, somewhat reluctantly, and takes her hand. "What?"

Perhaps it's time to tell him the truth. "There's something I haven't told you." She intertwines their fingers. "Don't be mad."

"What is it?" he asks her, a little warily.

She presses her lips together, takes a deep breath, and then says, "I've had more visions -"

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Oh, _mon_ -"

"Maurice!" she scolds. "They're good ones." When he opens his eyes again, she gives him a small smile. "I see you, and me, and this farm," she closes her eyes, "and sometimes a small child."

When she opens her eyes again, he looks like he's in shock. "A small child?"

"Yes." She squeezes his fingers before releasing them. "I've prayed for months to understand. I know I took my vows, but all I've felt at the Church is like I'm in a cage. I never felt more sure of anything than when we banished the demon, but after that, I felt lost. I only felt found here, with you. I think that's what my visions are telling me."

"And what if your visions tell you to leave?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"Then I'll make sure you come with me," she answers, "if you want to."

He steps closer, almost as close as before. His hands go to her hair with something like reverence. "If I want to? I'll always want to."

Her lips find his as he tilts her head back, fingers gentle against her scalp. This kiss is sweet again, like their first was. She lets her legs wrap around his waist again, as she holds on to his suspenders. She loses herself in him again.

She barely notices when her head feels lighter, how he's running his fingers through her hair freely instead of clutching at the updo she'd had it in. When his fingers reach the tips of her hair, one of his hands settles at the small of her back again, pulling her ever closer. It makes her whimper, move her own hands from his suspenders to his chest, to grasp at the lapels of his shirt. She can't get enough of him.

His other hand is rubbing circles into her knee, slowly making them bigger until his hand is slipping underneath her skirt. She's taken to keeping her legs bare, after one too many tears in her stockings. It'd felt immodest at the time, but now she's more than thankful for it. She shivers when his hand brushes the edge of her underwear.

Abruptly, he picks her up again, making her squeal as she throws her arms around his neck, eyes wide as she feels herself being lifted. "Maurice!"

His laugh tickles her throat. "I'm not defiling a nun on my kitchen table. A bed sounds much more comfortable."

She laughs at that, too, and is still grinning as he drops her on the bed. Her hair goes everywhere as she lands, bouncing a little. She suddenly feels wanton, knows how it must look with her skirt riding up her thighs, her lips swollen from kisses, and the flush across her cheeks.

Something must change in her face, because he pauses, and kneels in front of her. "Irene."

"What?" she asks, her breath caught in her throat.

"If you don't want to do this, we don't have to. I don't want to rush you, I -"

"Maurice," she interrupts him, softly, "come here."

His eyes soften as he crawls towards her, lowering himself over her. He carefully brushes her hair away from her face, before supporting his weight on his forearms. "I'm here."

She tilts her face up, expecting him to kiss her again. He does, but first on her forehead, on her nose, on both cheeks. She no longer feels like hesitating as his lips finally, finally meet hers again. It's slow and burning her up from the inside out. Her fingers start undoing the buttons on his shirt, one by one.

When she gets to the end of the row of buttons, she gently tugs his shirt out of his trousers. He only moves off of her to shrug off his suspenders, and then his undone shirt, before moving back to kissing her, as if it's the only thing in the world he wants to do.

However, that's not the only thing _she_ wants to do. She maps the planes and muscles of his chest, running her fingers first down his sides and then through the patch of hair that runs across his stomach, making him jump.

"Irene," he breathes, pulling back a little.

She opens her eyes to look at him. "Yes?"

He moves his mouth to her jawline before pressing kisses against her neck. He mumbles something into her collarbone that she can't quite understand, but, before she can ask him to repeat it, he begins undoing the buttons on her own blouse, knuckles brushing against her bare skin.

She whimpers, brushing her fingers through his hair as he follows the open buttons with kisses. The burn she feels is intensifying, and she can tell her underwear is soaked through. She helps him tug her shirt out of her skirt, and doesn't even wait for him before she quickly undoes the clasp of her bra. Before she can move further, however, he takes her hands and presses them into the mattress.

"I was looking forward to doing that," he tells her.

"You were taking too long."

Her breath hitches in her throat as he hums, and slips her bra off the rest of the way. She has a single moment where she wants to cover herself up, but the look in his eyes calms her. He's looking at her like she's seen some priests look in prayer. It makes her feel holy.

He presses kisses to the swells of her breasts, before taking one into his mouth. She arches her back at the sensation, her hand slipping into his hair again and tugging on it in what she hopes isn't a painful way.

From the way he nips at her in response, she thinks maybe he likes it.

She writhes against the mattress when he moves to her other breast, needing something to relieve the pressure between her legs. He seems to understand this, and sticks his leg where she can grind against it. She cries out in relief, and then again in frustration when he takes it away. It turns into a gasp of shock, however, when she feels his head slide under her skirt, and fingers pushing her underwear aside.

"Maurice, what -"

All she can hear is a muffled shushing noise before he dips a finger into her. Her hands scrabble for purchase in the blankets underneath her as he starts pumping his finger in and out. It hurts a little, but brings much more pleasure than pain. And then, just when she thinks she's gotten used to it, he adds a second finger.

She's panting and pushing herself into his hands as he presses hard on her center, where her clit must be. She'd heard some of the teenage girls talking about it in hushed, giggled tones, but had never given much thought to it. Now, she wishes she had, especially as he makes tight circles, and she sobs in relief as her body climaxes. His fingers slowly stop pumping, and he removes himself from underneath her skirt.

"How was it?" he asks her, smirking a little.

She laughs a little breathlessly, still shaky. "What do you think?"

He leans up to give her a quick kiss. "Help me with your skirt."

They manage to tug it and her underwear off relatively quickly, as they steal kisses and touches. She then goes to help him with his pants, but he pushes her down into the mattress again, kissing her until she forgets what they were doing. Until she feels his hands in between her legs again.

She gasps into his mouth, her fingers grasping at his shoulders. He's moving much more quickly this time, and he takes advantage of her surprise to start pressing kisses down her sternum, until he reaches where his fingers are still pumping in and out of her.

"What are you doing?" she asks, when she finally has the presence of mind to.

"You look so delicious," he tells her, "I want to see how you taste."

He removes his fingers and replaces them with his tongue, using them instead to press tight circles once again into her clit.

She thrashes, writhing and whimpering, not knowing how to deal with the pleasure she's feeling. The ecstasy of his mouth working her over the edge again. She tries to restrain herself, but can't help herself form clamping her thighs around his head. He gently pries them away after she's cried out her release again, and probably flooded his mouth with it.

Her suspicions are confirmed after she sees him wipe his mouth on the back of his arm, before he crawls back to her. She's panting harshly, still, so he only presses a kiss to her neck as he waits for her breathing to slow.

She eventually is able to swallow, and ask him, "That wasn't, ah, repugnant for you?"

"No," he says, with a smile she can feel against her collarbone, "not repugnant at all."

"Oh." Her limbs feel heavy, but she still manages to turn and look at him. "Well, I enjoyed it."

He looks smug as he presses a kiss to her lips. "I thought I could tell so."

She laughs. "You're so -"

"Sexy?"

She laughs again. "I was going to say smug, but yes, that, too."

He smiles at her as he brushes the hair away from her face, where it's sticking due to the sweat. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I never want to leave this bed."

It's his turn to laugh. "I know the first time for women can be a little painful, so I'm trying to be gentle."

"But we haven't even had sex yet."

He frowns. "Then please tell me what we've been doing?"

She opens her mouth to respond, before closing it. "I suppose I have a lot to learn. They didn't exactly teach us this in Catholic school."

"You're doing fantastic," he reassures her, kissing her slowly and deeply again.

"And what about you?" she asks, when they've broken apart for air again. "It seems like I've experienced all the pleasure."

"Aren't you tired?"

She thinks about it, before reaching to kiss him again. "I was, but there's something about kissing you. I don't want to stop."

"Okay," he whispers against her mouth, "okay. Just promise you won't be mad."

"Mad about what?" She manages to not whimper when he leaves the bed, but only just.

He winces as he pulls a package out of the top drawer in his dresser, hidden beneath some clothes. "My condoms."

She frowns as she sits up. "Why would I be mad?"

He looks back at her as he takes one from the pack. "Because of the implications? Because of how Catholics think of birth control?"

"I think we've proven I'm not the best Catholic," she gives him a wry grin, "and, as for the implications, you made no promises to me. I was a nun."

He kisses her as he reaches her side again. "Should I make a promise now?"

"Only if you want," she answers, breathless again.

He fumbles with the fastenings of his pants, so she reaches over to help him. Together, they manage to push them, and his underwear, down, and to get the condom on. He pushes her back into the mattress with another long, deep kiss. It's a little different, however, now that she can fully feel the length of him against her thigh.

"Would you believe me if I made a promise now?"

Her eyes, which had been closed because they had been kissing, open, and she meets his gaze. He's earnest, and serious, and she swears she can see herself reflected in the blue she's looking into.

"Yes," she says, as honestly and as sincerely as she's ever been about anything.

"I promise there's no one but you," he presses a kiss to her lips briefly, "and I promise that, if this hurts, I will stop."

"I believe you."

She holds on to his shoulders as his hand finds a knee and stretches it up, spreading her. He first gathers the moisture he finds at her entrance, spreading it and dipping his fingers in until she's panting again. It's only then that he presses into her.

It does hurt, in a passive sort of way. Certainly no worse than when she learned to ride a horse, or even when her menstrual cycle comes.

He stills once he's fully inside, panting harshly himself, his frame wracked with tension. "How do you feel?"

"Very full," she tells him, moving a little experimentally.

He groans. "So I can move now?"

She only has time to nod once before he's pulling out and pushing back in, pumping into her much more quickly than she thought he would. His thrusts are hitting some part of her she didn't even know existed, and it isn't long before she's clutching at his back and whimpering again. His hand finds her clit once more and the combined sensations have her babbling like a lunatic.

"Yes, _please_, Maurice, _more_, more, don't stop, _yes_ -"

His thrusts become more frantic, almost animalistic. She almost weeps with relief as the pressure builds to its breaking point once more, and she falls apart in his arms, grasping at every inch of him she can touch.

It doesn't take him much longer to follow her off the cliff, and he comes with a muffled moan into the crook of her neck.

She feels him grow limp inside of her, and wonders if she should repent for their premarital sex. Closing her eyes, she searches her soul as she continues to clutch him to her. But there's no guilt, no doubt in her. Just contentment, and happiness. A feeling of peace that seems to come from Maurice himself.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks her, muffled by her shoulder.

She releases him so he can roll off her, and so she can look at him properly. "None," she tells him, with a grin.

"Good," he says, grabbing her around the waist and dragging her to him, "because I won't let you go again."

She laughs, which turns into a yawn. "I suppose we should clean up."

He hums as he kisses her forehead. "That's probably for the best."

Later, when they've finally made it underneath the covers, she turns to him. "When we were kissing, earlier, you said something in French. What was it?"

"I said a lot of things in French, and none of them fit for a lady's ears," he tells her.

She frowns at him. "No, before you got my shirt off."

"Oh." It's dark in the room, but she can still make out the blush on his face. "It's, well, I said _je t'aime_."

He might not've expected her to know what it means, but she does. "Do you regret it?" she asks.

"No!" He pauses and regards her carefully. "I just, didn't want you to think I was only saying it to get you into bed."

She meets his gaze thoughtfully. "You're a good man, Maurice," she says, before smiling at him, "and I love you, too."

It sparks something in him, and, almost before she knows it, their clothes have been discarded, a fresh condom has been gotten, and he's once again inside of her.

When they've finished, tangled up in each other, she somehow knows she won't be woken by any visions or dreams when she sleeps, that she'll be able to rest for the first night in a long time.

She's right.

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already guessed it, Frenchie does not become the person Lorraine and Ed exorcise in the beginning of the Conjuring. How does that work without Frenchie? No idea, and also not my problem!
> 
> Also, according to the History of Contraceptives by Planned Parenthood, condoms were widely available in the 1950s so this is technically historically accurate! In at least one way. Not many others probably. But the one that counts.


End file.
